The Piano Tutor (2 page)

Still clasping her hand, he looked into her eyes—a look full of promise that made her heart race. “Until next Wednesday.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The tea shop on Bond Street was filled with the cheerful babble of conversation. Diana had requested a table in the nook—the safest place for a chat with Lucy, whose voice had a tendency to carry.

“Tell me, darling.” Lucy arched an elegant eyebrow. “Is Mr. Jameson proving to be… satisfactory? I’d like to know if my recommendation was well-advised.”

Mr. Jameson. Diana let out a slow breath.

She could not stop thinking of him—his grey eyes and handsome features, the confidence that accompanied his every movement. The past three Wednesdays had found her with a giddy lightness of spirit. She was attuned to each nuance of his expression, addicted to the heat that his slow smiles sent through her. At the conclusion of every session, he had kissed her hand. Last Wednesday, his lips had seemed to linger, the heat of his breath playing against her skin for a long moment. The memory of it sent a fluttery breathlessness winging through her even now.

“He….” Diana ran her fingertip back and forth across the rim of her cup. “He seems an excellent teacher—very patient with Samantha, and kind. She is enjoying music lessons far more than she ever has before. It’s a pity he’s only a
temporary
tutor. There’s a certain quality about him…”

She took a hasty swallow of tea. Goodness, she shouldn’t be prattling on. Whatever secret thoughts she had of the new piano tutor should stay exactly that—secret. Although, of anyone, Lucy would understand.

Her friend tilted her head, a speculative light in her eyes. “Why Diana. Are you developing an
interest
in Mr. Jameson? How marvelous. As I told you, I think he would prove an excellent diversion. You should commence an affair immediately.”

Diana set her cup down so quickly that a bit of tea sloshed over the edge. “Lucy you are shocking.”

Even worse than Lucy’s suggestions were the images that flooded Diana’s mind. Heat bloomed in her cheeks. What if Mr. Jameson did not stop when he kissed her hand? What if he continued, his warm lips laying kisses up her arm, along her neck? What if he reached her mouth and covered it with his own?

Her friend gave her a shrewd look. “High time you began thinking of yourself. You’re out of formal mourning now. And you’ve admitted that your marriage to Lord Waverly was never one of deep passion.”

“A marriage does not need passion if it has respect and…” She searched for the proper word. “Goodwill.”

Lucy waved her hand. “Goodwill is all very well, in its place. But now you have an opportunity—you should seize it! If you are careful and discreet, no-one will suspect. You are free to follow your heart, or your whims—or both.”

Lucy made it sound so simple.

“I must admit…” Her chest tightened, excitement firing through her blood as she spoke aloud the words she had been holding inside for weeks. “I find Mr. Jameson quite attractive. And his manner very pleasing.”

Lucy nodded approval. “Indeed.”

“What does it mean,” Diana continued, “when a man’s presence makes one feel so very
awake
? I can scarcely sleep for thoughts of him, and when I do, my dreams are….” She lowered her voice. “Oh, my dreams are most wicked.”

“That is excellent news.” Lucy’s eyes were bright. “Perhaps you should make them come true.”

Diana dropped her gaze to the tablecloth. “I doubt I’m ready to embark on such a course.” It was one thing to indulge in such imaginations, quite another to act upon them. She had never considered herself bold of spirit.

“Well.” Lucy dabbed her lips with her napkin. “It is your choice—but regardless, it’s high time you began going out in society again. Gracious, Diana, people will scarcely remember you if you keep yourself locked away.”

“In due time, Lucy.” Her friend was a master at maneuvering people when she thought she knew what was best for them. Which was most of the time. “There’s Samantha to think of, and—well, I’m comfortable as I am.” Though she was markedly less content since a certain piano tutor had come into her well-ordered life.

“Comfortable?” Lucy lifted her nose in disdain. “That’s almost as bad as
goodwill
. You need more interesting words to fill your life.
Passion
, for one. And
delight
. And best of all,” her eyes sparked with mischief, “best of all—
ravishment
.”

“Lucy!” Diana clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle her giggles. “You’re outrageous!”

Her friend joined her laughter, oblivious to the disapproving looks of the nearby patrons. When their mirth finally subsided, Lucy assumed the commanding tones of Lady Pembroke.

“Call me what you please,” she said. “I only speak the truth. Regardless of your obvious fascination with the new piano tutor, you
will
come to the musicale I’m hosting on Tuesday. It will be a small gathering—nothing too overwhelming. I’ll expect you promptly at eight.”

“I—”

“Pray, do not disappoint me. If you don’t arrive promptly, I’ll dispatch my burliest footmen to fetch you.”

“Oh very well,” Diana said. There was no arguing with Lucy. “As long as there is no more talk of affairs and….” She could not even say the word
ravishment
aloud, though it echoed through her thoughts. “I’ll come to your musicale.” She made no promises, however, as to how late she would stay.

Her friend gave a nod of satisfaction, then consulted her dainty silver pocket-watch, as if recalling something urgent. “Goodness, the time has flown! I’m nearly late for the modiste. Delightful to see you, Diana. Til Tuesday.” She brushed a kiss across Diana’s cheek, then hurried off, leaving Diana alone with her unsettled thoughts.

Their chat had left an edgy restlessness humming through her. Her carriage awaited outside, the driver ready to take her wherever she pleased. If only she knew where that might be.

Diana gathered her reticule and pelisse and left the shop. The air outside was pleasantly warm, and she turned her face up to the pale May sun. It was too lovely a day to waste in simply going back to Waverly House and going over menus with the cook.

She lingered, looking in the shop windows. A glorious fan painted with swans—she could nearly imagine herself with it at some ball, laughing and dancing. Or that bracelet set with sapphires, clasped about her wrist. It was frivolous, the gems sparkling beautifully in their settings. Still, she turned away from the window. No purchase could soothe her restiveness.

She had just resolved to return home when she caught sight of a certain broad-shouldered, brown-haired gentleman striding toward her. Sparks raced through her entire body. Mr. Jameson! The loveliness of the day exploded into fiery brilliance.

He met her eyes, a smile spreading across his face as he made his way to her side.

“Viscountess.” He doffed his top hat. “It’s a fine day. Would you care to join me for a stroll in St. James’s Park?”

“That would be,” —ill-advised, besotted as she had become with him—“…delightful.”

He offered his arm and she tucked her hand through with no hesitation. She was keenly aware of the places their bodies touched, and it was difficult to resist the urge to lean too close.

They walked side-by-side down Bond Street to the park. The feel of his firmly muscled forearm was not disguised even through the layers of his coat and her glove, and she found it deliciously distracting. The rest of him seemed as toned and muscular as his arm. Diana shot him a sideways glance. His well-fitted breeches showed his thighs flexing taut with every step, and his stomach seemed perfectly flat beneath the blue silk of his waistcoat. Lucy’s words echoed through her.
Passion
.
Delight
.

The green trees of St. James’s closed over them as they entered the long promenade. A lazy pond curved to one side, insects buzzing beside the water. The day was fine, the scene peaceful, but Diana felt unbalanced and strangely giddy.

There were so many questions she dare not ask. They scalded her tongue. She wanted to know everything about him, yet was afraid the answers would spoil the perfection of the day. Where are you from? Have you a wife? A mistress? She swallowed them unspoken.

“Do you enjoy teaching the piano?” she finally asked.

He nodded, his twilight eyes regarding her. “I’m finding a great deal of satisfaction in it. Miss Samantha is a quick study, and a fine musician. As are you, my lady. Have you ever considered taking lessons on the piano?”

“Taking lessons myself?” She blinked up at him. “I have always simply sung, Mr. Jameson. That is enough for me.”

“How do you know?” His hand covered hers. “You should try something new. You might find that you like it very well.” His smile held more than a little wickedness. Goodness! Was he suggesting…

Diana dropped her gaze, hoping her blush was hidden by the fashionable plumes in her bonnet. It seemed to be an afternoon for improper conversations.

With a sudden daring, she asked, “If I were to become your pupil, when might these tutorials occur? Before or after Samantha’s lessons?”

“Not on Wednesday.” His voice was warm honey, drizzling over her senses. “My instruction would require sufficient uninterrupted time. Perhaps Thursdays.”

“Surely your other pupils would object to the change of schedule.”

The pressure of his hand over hers increased. “It’s all a matter of priority.”

They were passing a weeping willow, the leaves tender and newly green, swaying lightly in the breeze. Diana took a deep breath of the soft air to steady herself.

“I would be your priority on Thursdays?”

He stopped and gave her an intent look. “You would be my priority every day.”

Oh, it was the purest flirtation, she knew it, but still her heartbeat stumbled in giddy joy.

“Really, Mr. Jameson—”

“Call me Nicholas.” He drew her off the pathway, beneath the sheltering canopy of the willow tree.

“Nicholas.” She half-whispered it, a bold exhilaration tingling through her. “Then you must call me Diana.”

Suddenly they were not tutor and lady any longer, but only man and woman. The air between them was alive with possibility, the spaces where bodies were, and were not. And could be.

Had she had taken complete leave of her senses? She did not care. In one twist of an afternoon a gate had opened that she had thought closed forever. A pathway back to herself. Not the young widow. Not the capable stepmother, but
her
, Diana, who had once been full of passionate dreams.

Her senses were sharpened by an almost unbearable anticipation. Everything was magnified—the light breeze, the scent of his bergamot cologne, the sound of water quietly lapping the shore. There was something excruciatingly wonderful about knowing she was about to be kissed. He leaned forward, a smile dancing in his eyes, and she tilted her face up to him.

His mouth brushed hers, their lips meeting, parting, meeting again—like a musician sounding a note, over and over, until it was perfect. She slid her hands up to his shoulders, learning the shape of his mouth against hers.

He increased the pressure of his lips. The smooth slide of his tongue against her lower lip made sparks scatter through her, and she willingly opened her mouth to him. Nicholas dipped his tongue inside. He tasted of tea and desire, and something inside her gave way, melting like late frost before the sun.

This was no debutante’s kiss. It carried the full knowledge of how a man and a woman fit together. The plunge of his tongue into her mouth, her yielding softness—all this was part of the dance, a promise of deeper intimacies. She pressed herself closer to him, yearning spiraling out from her center.

Nicholas Jameson was a wonderful kisser.

It was more than the way he fitted his lips so perfectly over hers, or the velvety warmth of his tongue. More than the feel of his hand curving around her shoulder, the brush of his thumb over her bare collarbone. His kiss flared through her entire body.

She was aware of her toes, warm and content in her buttoned boots. Her legs, cased in silk stockings with ribbon garters above her knees. The soft cotton of her chemise where it lay against her skin. The fine silk of her drawers, heated at the juncture of her legs.

And she was aware of him. Wonderfully aware of the slight roughness of his jaw as he kissed her, the warm maleness of him as they leaned into one another, the smell of spring willows and fine wool, and arousal. His. Hers.

They kissed and kissed, and then it was over. Diana opened her eyes and smiled up at him, as though she had just woken from a perfect dream.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Diana set a smile across her face and nodded at the conversation flowing past. Oh, she should never have agreed to come to Lucy’s musicale. She had no heart for it. It had been too long—she did not know any of the current
on dits
and was relegated to standing awkwardly at the edges of the company.

Besides, how could she possibly be a witty conversationalist when all she could think of was Nicholas’s hands at her waist, drawing her into that intoxicating kiss?